A film parody with a very Silas slant, because (let's face it), with Rasputin the Mad Monk's gun-toting younger relative running about, it's hard to be very interested in Goody-Two-Shoes Langdon and his wooden assistant, Amelie. Enjoy.
No 'Noisy Bleedy Death' Involved!
That really was a bit messy, thought Silas unhappily.
The plan had been simple: Bishop AringaRingaRosie had said to find Jacques Sauniere, take the secret of the keystone from him, and finish the job.
What he hadn't betted on was Silas' typical albino shortsightedness.
Sauniere had given him the slip, and Silas, after falling down an elevator shaft and charging into the Ladies Toilets, had finally identified the right door, exited, and taken it onto the streets of Paris.
For an old man, Sauniere really could leg it - Silas had shot three roller-skaters and a Spanish waitress before finally identifying his target. He had finished him off in the end, although (he thought sadly) the amount of time I wasted falling down that lift-shaft, he could probably have re-wallpapered the Louvre gallery, let alone left secret clues.
Time to go back to the apartment, and pray.
-
The author is trying to handle him delicately…crap…handle the topic matter delicately, thus extracting the maximum amount of humour without stripping him of all dignity. Because, let's face it, there's really not anything left to strip. Silas was in naught but his pale, pale, pale, PALE birthday sui…
'VILL you stop writing me as pale, woman? Not moon-white. Not alabaster. Not marble. Not ze wretched milky adjectives!'
Sorry. And sorry about that unfortunate accent, but look on the bright side: you could enter the Eurovision song contest.
'It's not even true! Look, look, I'm a pervectly regular Caucasian! Natural redheads are paler than me! I'm juzt a bit pink! Anyvun would think I was The Man in the Moon!'
Speaking of which, turn around. It's time for the bit everyone is irrationally fascinated by - which of course is only there to express the way in which the sensual merges with the sacred, and certainly NOT to indulge any hithero-unrealised kinky S&M notions or set up any cheesy hurt/comfort fics, no…
'Be qviet!'
Qviet?
'Qviet! I am praying to God! Am I the only vun who takes this seriously?'
Yes.
'Then…I comfort myself with the knowledge zat I am going to heaven, as I am skveaky-clean and largely sin-free, whereas yu, yu who are even now zinking adjectives like 'fleshy' and 'oozing', vill burn in hell vor eternity. Hah!'
Hell doesn't exist, Silas. And if it did, you would just have committed the sin of pride. Feeling yourself superior to others is sinful.
'Dammit!' Silas cried, flagellating one stroke and biting his lip with the pain.
You just swore. That's blasphemous.
'Dammit, I swore! Oh damn, I swore again…aaargh!' Silas was furious with himself, and matched each blow with similar fury, tearing holes in his pale, damp flesh as the blood began oozing.
Is that better, Silas?
'Yes! Yes! Yes!'
Then you're committing the sin of lust. Over-much interest in sensations of the flesh.
Aroused to anger, Silas, down on his knees by now, panted hard a few seconds, and began to thrash with renewed vigour. Rivulets of scarlet blood traced the curvature of his arched spine. He licked his lips in anticipation, mind focused on God, body focused on the task.
Harder, Silas! Don't you want your sins absolved?
On his knees, moaning prayers, praying helplessly for an end to this exquisite torture, and yet never wanting it to stop. His face contorted with the pain as the multiple wounds throbbed and throbbed and throbbed, relentless.
Please, please, he prayed, begging, let me be good, let it end, let me be good enough that I might deserve and end, I will be pure. He groaned, writhing helplessly. Faster! Faster! The whipping had re-opened some of the older wounds, and from his broad, naked shoulders to his muscled buttocks, was a raw and bloodied mess.
His shoulders heaved, ribs pressing against the whiteness of his alabaster flesh as he fought for air.
He gasped.
Yes, yes, finally, it was at an end! Finally, he felt pure enough once again to cease this punishment! One final time, he flexed his thigh against the cruel spikes of the cilice, sending streaks of white-hot sensation racing up and down his nerves, his loins, his spine. Arching and crying out as the ecstasy of the Lord came upon him, he finished, clawing at the floor, seeking support as the glory racked him, seemingly for hours on end, running through his veins and making him holler.
He fell to the hard floor, and rested there, panting awhile, joyous. He shivered, the sweat cooling on his pale flesh. Cold. The spatters of blood he had thrown off, little ruby droplets, were like an outpouring of sin. He watched them sink into the barewood floor, still shuddering, his breath coming in quick, sweet shivers. His back throbbed and ached yet, but it was dulling a little.
And it felt good. Pain is good.
'Pain is good,' he said quietly.
I just made pornography out of your penance. I could make a killing writing for Mills and Boon, I tell you…!
Dan Brown 1: Holiness and Religious Zeal 0.
-
Professor Langdon was confused.
'Amelie...sorry, Sophie, wasn't there supposed to be about three hundred scenes of me and you talking crap and getting acquainted with each other's 1-Dimensional characters before this? And intrigue? And danger? And puzzle-solving?'
Sophie Nevue, who was busy filling out the daily Su Doku in 'La Parisienne' newspaper, paid him little attention. The codex lay beside them, untouched, in the back of the prison van, because the author's so effing useless at following plots that it seemed simpler just to cut away the inconvenient bits. Like the bits sans Silas.
'I mean, how come all my lines and acting got cut?' Langdon wailed.
'Well, Monsieur Langdon, no-one likes a goody-two-shoes,' she replied woodenly, sitting very rigid and wooden and thinking woodenly: maybe your forehead scared them.
'Yeah?' Langdon retorted, clutching frantically at his one concession to being a convincing human being (his Mickey Mouse wristwatch), 'Well, maybe nobody likes a know-it-all either, Miss Nevue!'
'Oh hush,' she woodenly said, 'we're supposed to be creating a romantic will-they-won't-they frisson!'
'Despite us having about as much chemistry as a physics lecture?'
'Oui!'
-
Meanwhile, back in Silas' apartment:
'Silas?'
'Yes, Teacher?' Silas listened eagerly on the mobile phone.
'I need you to meet with the Bishop, soon, very soon. One hour's time, on La Rue Insanitie. He has things to say to you. Important things'
'I understand, Teacher' Silas said reverently.
'Can you get there in time?'
'Of course! I'll just put on my robe,' Silas looked across at the window, having hung it out of the window to air it (that lift shaft had been rather musty). There it was.
He said farewell, put down the phone, and walked to the window… only to see a freak gust of wind snatchthe robe up.
Silas watched in utter dismay as his only garment billowed out the window, and floated gracefully away over the Parissiene rooftops, flapping its sleeves like a hessian albatross. It was a beautiful sight, and would of course have meant nothing to anyone who'd not given all their other clothes away to charity and become a monk.
Silas sighed.
Note to self, he thought nakedly: keeping spare robes probably not a sin.
-
'I am expected to drive this to find Langdon? Master, I do not know much about cars, but – could nozink better be vound at short notice?' Silas said mournfully.
'Silas, I'm disappointed in you. Many people would give their eye teeth for a car like this!'
This mission was getting trickier. Being menacing was going to be a hell of a lot more difficult behind the wheel of a yellow Robin Reliant.
'Silas, your disrespect displeases the Lord,' the Bishop AringaRingaRosie frowned, 'go over there and pull out the weeds on the apartment lawn with this teaspoon'
Silas hung his head in shame.
'As punishment?'
'No, because I don't have a Weedwhacker. Duh'.
Silas got down on his hands and knees and got down to it. This day was just getting worse and worse. He hadn't even been able to get a replacement robe, and, realising a naked Paul Bettany on the streets of Paris might generate a lot of unwanted (although probably very positive) attention, had had to make do with a voluptuous Edwardian nightie, stolen from a neighbours clothes-line. The result was somewhere between Beatrix Potter and the Ku Klux Klan.
As he pulled out weeds, the Bishop lectured him, in true fanfiction writing-style:
'Blah blah blah blah sinful blah blah Pope blah blah blah messenger of God blah blah…'
'Imuss Chass tize myslef…' Silas muttered, on a sudden compulsion.
'Eh?'
'Sorry, that vas a fanfic typo. How embarrassing'
'Yee-eees…' Bishop AringaRingaRosie eyed him strangely, 'Anyway, as I was saying, blah blah blah God blah blah blah something about purity blah blahb lah death to the unbelievers blah blah blah holy…Silas, you getting this?'
'Yes Mass Tere im stl listning I rote dwn wat 2 do in my dairy wit a pen'
'Silas, you're doing it again, and this time you're talking crap as well'
'Master, I apologize profusely! I vill not let ze fangirls get me aglen…I mean again!'
'Fangirls?'
'Yes, Master. Zey write me talking nonsense'
Bishop AringaRingaRosie sighed.
'This is not unknown to me. And let me tell you: it ain't getting any better. You wouldn't believe what they were writing about in the Lord of the Rings fandom after everyone had got desensitised to things like plot, character and plausibility'
'Vot?' said Silas worriedly, icy-blue eyes widening in alarm.
'Well, in three weeks time you could be a fully-fledged Slash star'
'!' moaned Silas, having a heart attack. Oh, the sinfulness of it all! Oh, the curse of being an attractive, naked maniac! Oh, the horror of not being able to just complete his mission and live a quiet life! Alas, alackaday, woe and thrice woe!
-
Bezoar Fache was very angry. He was risking his career over Langdon and that wretched Nevue woman, risking it all for this secret Holy War, and war, huh, what was it good for? Absolutely nothing! (Sorry)
Bezoar Fache was massively angry and stomped about shouting things down a mobile phone. Nobody cared, because he had a face like a depressed haddock, and because they were shallow. Everyone was just waiting for Silas' cheekbones, preferably with Silas attached, to get back on screen.
-
'And now!' cried the Bishop,' we shall reap God's bounty!'
He passed Silas a small chocolate bar.
'What's this?'
'God's Bounty,' the Priest bit into his half luxuriously, 'Sometimes you just need a tea-break from saving the World As We Know It'
Silas sniffed it. Hmm. Coconut flavour. Not that he'd eaten anything except cardboard and rocks for the last ten years, but if the Priest said it was ok…
It was a white and yummy inside. Albino chocolate.
'And now, Silas, go forth, in the glory of God! Go forth, and die, I mean deliver the keystone into the waiting grasp of Opus Dei! Bring glory upon us!'
'Wait, vat vas that bit you said about dyin…?'
'No time, no time, we must speed you on your way!' the Bishop jollied, hustling him into the Robin Reliant, whereupon Silas' six foot-two frame folded up like a concertina in the limited space, his knees like earmuffs and his gibbous long arms grasping the steering wheel in a stranglehold.
'Are you sure you didn't mention anyzink about death?'
'Now don't be modest, Silas,' Bishop AringaRingaRosie huffed, ignoring him, 'there's no difficultly involved in your task, and no risk of a horrible, painful, undignified, messy death whatsoever - you've been specially selected by Opus Dei because you're disposable, I mean, indispensable'. He clapped Silas heartily on the back, nearly causing him a seizure, and slammed the door shut.
Silas pootled off in his three-wheeled transport, nibbling his albino lip worriedly.
-
Back at Nevue and Langdon's end of the line, a satisfactory conclusion had been reached.
'So Leigh Teabag was the one in the fake Vampire mask, scaring all the visitors away from the Carnival ride!' Sophie exclaimed, one hand on hip as she yanked the mask off of Ian McKellen's twinkly-eyed head.
'Zoiks!' exclaimed Langdon, stroking his goatee and nibbling a Scooby-Snack, 'What a plot-twist!'
'Bah! And I'd have gotten away with it, too, if it hadn't of been for you pesky kids!' Teabag cried out, as he was led away by the other Police Officers. He paused to do the can-can whilst shouting 'Look at meeee, everybody! Look at meee! I'm hammier than a hog roast! I'm more magnetic than a lodestone! I've got as much screen presence as a plasma-screen Panasonic! Can you hear me up the back row of the theatre, people, its Richard III, Act Three, Scene One, and my Shakespeare's on tip-top form tonight!'
'Zoiks, Scoob!' said Langdon, upon witnessing this.
And Sophie and Robert Langdon, along with Daphne and Scooby-Doo, got back into the Mystery Machine and drove off in search of more spooky adventures.
-
And now, for the real end. Silas' end. That miserable, miserable cut-his-young-life-off-like-Anne-Boleyn's-favourite-necklace end.
Well, here's some good news.
There was no Noisy Bleedy Death involved.
It did not involve the kind of happenings that fangirls would try and tie themselves in knots trying to undo.
It did not involve any Albino Trauma that caused people to fantasise about large mugs of hot chocolate, fleecy blankets and lots of motherly, bosomy hugs for the poor unloved bleachy-haired dear.
No.
As Silas lay upon the pavement, wondering where it all went wrong and if perhaps his life would've been more interesting when it flashed before his eyes if he'd had a girlfriend, an elegant stranger came across him.
'Looks like you've had a stroke of luck, dearie!'
'Listen, you old bat,' said Silas, because he was only human and he was entitled to feel a little irritated at this moment in time, 'I've juzt been shot in ze heart and have five seconds to live! HOW is zat a stroke of luck?'
'Because, dearie, I just watched that bullet bounce away and hit the Officer who fired it in the chest'
'Eh?'
Silas sat up, patting himself and marvelling at the lack of blood. His hand came into contact with something hard (A/N: Silence, you smut-puppies! Keep those dirty minds on a leash!). His Bible, tucked close to his heart in a front-pocket. Miraculously, the shot had bounced off it, and deflected the bullet away! Silas was saved!
'Everyone's dead, love,' this nice middle-aged lady was saying, 'You know, you look the sort of nice young man I could do with about the house. If you wanted, you could come and stay with me awhile while all this blows over? You've got, oooooh, five, six minutes to make a getaway before the reinforcements come, seeing as to how everyone's dead at the moment'
And Silas, quite happily, agreed.
It proved a merry ending, Silas finding he had been adopted by an elegant, middle aged Domme with tired arms – who was delighted to have found a self-flogging slave! It saved her a great deal of effort, and he was a polite man who always said grace before meals. And in the morning. And all night. And any other time he cared to please. In fact, he did quite a bit of praying, but seeing as that was what the poor brainwashed creature liked doing best, he was happy at least. They got along like a house that wasn't on fire i.e harmoniously, with no falling masonry and screaming passers-by.
And that was the end of that.
The End-
A note on my inspiration for this, 'The Albino Code':
The Albino Code is a parody short film, written and starring one albino Dennis Hurley. He made it out of concern that The Da Vinci Code portrays his albino condition in a negative light.
Personally (in the nicest and least disrespectful way possible), I think he's off his rocker.
Whatever else Silas is, he's attractive. Albinos might get stick from one half of the population, but the other i.e. female half have so far done nothing worse than hurl themselves, squealing merrily, at Dennis' MySpace profile, crying 'Tis a real-life Silas! Except with a wicked sense of humour! HURRAH!'.
If you would like so see what all the fuss is about, see The Albino Code website ( .Be sure to email in and leave a good review, he's charming andwholly deserves the praise.
And speaking of which, have I mentioned that reviews are the very lifeblood which courses round my veins? I haven't?
Good; 'cause that's a revoltingly pretentious thing to say!
Although. Um. I still want some reviews…